Profiler Profiled
by Kurissyma san Tybalt
Summary: A post-ep for 'Profiled Profiled' exploring both Morgan and Garcia's thoughts on the case and its aftermath...


_**Author's Note – Another story plucked from the depths of my hard-drive. Originally I had intended for this to be longer, likely a multi-chapter fic, but I thought, since I doubt I'll ever finish it, I'd at least put this much up and let it stand-alone. I hope you enjoy it regardless. I wrote this the very night after I watched the episode 'Profiler Profiled' for the first time and it has been stewing on my computer since then. Enjoy! - Becky**_

~.~.~.~

(Morgan)

When I got back to Virginia I knew immediately why Elle had left us. It wasn't that she couldn't still do solid work for the team, or that she no longer thought that work worthwhile. It wasn't even altogether a security thing— needing to get away from the danger so she could feel safe in her own home again. No, I understood now.

It was about _us_.

About facing up to the team.

We all knew, whatever evidence may or may not ever turn up, that Elle had shot that man. It was a crime of passion she'd been unable to resist, and she'd done it purely because she'd _needed_ to. If she hadn't done that, she wouldn't have had the _right_ to feel safe in her home again, having usurped that right from other women like her just by letting him walk.

It had been a noble act, with good intentions, but after doing that she'd known that she couldn't return to us, and we hadn't blamed her. Since the shooting, in every possible way Elle's heart had been on her sleeve, and that made her dangerous, not just to herself but to everyone on the team. She agreed that she was no longer fit to be a profiler. She had to go.

But even though I can see this, I keep feeling that it's not the same for me.

…Where do I get off?

I'd told Buford that I was in the BAU because of bastards like him. Would I also leave because of him? Even as I thought about it, it felt dirty. I knew that I couldn't allow him the satisfaction, and more than that, just like Elle, I felt that I had no right to live if I didn't protect the lives of others. Like that was a contract I'd made—a price for the years my silence had been hurting those boys in Chicago.

For me, that price was staying with the team, not leaving it.

And it was quite a price.

But if I ever believed that Elle was weak to run away, then I don't now. Despite myself, I felt betrayed by Hotch and Gideon. They'd ignored my wishes, and dug their greedy, probing fingers into my mind and heart—my _past_—without warning, or any sort of otherwise anesthetic agent. I couldn't bear to think of them picturing it—me, a kid sexually abused by a man he considered to be a second father—and discussing how it must have impacted upon my current self. Was it enough to make me a killer? I wonder how they would have answered that question before my innocence was determined. Psychopaths make the best profilers, after all, and I was well on my way to becoming the _profiled_.

After the kids' funerals I tried my best, on a short compassionate leave, to settle things in my hometown, but in the end I was back on a flight back to Quantico, Virginia. I figured I could take the confrontations at a minor level and I prepared for them en route.

Hotch was unlikely to talk to me about it unless my work started slipping, and Gideon would likely contact me only briefly—a reassurance, or a reminder, perhaps, that I could talk to him. Honestly, I don't know if I could. About the nightmares, maybe, but not about this. Though I'm sure that old nut wouldn't expect anything less of me.

I didn't want to prolong the weakness this case had afforded me. Then again, I didn't want to go back to bottling it up either. That's why, as I flew back over, the main thing on my mind was how to make things right with Garcia—my God-given solace.

Oh, she hadn't said anything, of course, but it had been at least a week since we had last spoken on the phone, and that was all I needed to ascertain that she was avoiding me, rather than giving me space. In different circumstances, a day may well have been enough for that.

It was entirely likely that Garcia knew next to nothing about my relevant childhood, I consoled myself, but then again, that was probably why she was so upset. I had no doubt that she had unsealed my criminal record. I also had no doubt that, while upset that I hadn't mentioned it to her, she must have felt incredibly guilty for trespassing on my past.

That was all I needed: for someone to actually give a damn about my privacy—to have faith in my integrity as a human being.

Despite this, I also knew that the criminal record wouldn't be Garcia's biggest problem. _That_ would most definitely be not her ignorance of certain details but of how the investigation at large had actually ended. At the end of the day, it had been unanimously decided that no further part of my role in these investigations would be revealed to the team. I was just a preliminary suspect to uninvolved, or even semi-involved, parties. Having to confront my past with the team would only make things more awkward and difficult. _Do I mention it? Don't I?_ They'd wonder. And despite themselves they'd be curious, of course… It's human nature.

What I assumed that Garcia _did_ know was that Buford was a pedophile, and that he'd committed the murders to shut up his braver victims—the more talkative ones. It wouldn't be enough for her though. She'd want to know why it had to be me they'd suspected, and she'd be outraged at the lack of any formal apology—but that's just her. She's not silly. She's probably already guessed, or at least suspected, the truth at some time or other. It was just too bad for her that no relevant documents existed to either confirm or deny it. She was a genius, but she couldn't pull the police reports that I'd been too scared to file. Even she couldn't do that.

Much as I adored her, the prospect of admitting my weakness to my baby girl was a frightening one. For so long I'd kept my past secret and hidden—not trying to be a martyr, just trying to move past it. It wasn't selfless, but exactly the opposite: a move necessary for my future and myself. Self-preservation. At the time, I figured it was payment for my second chance in the world. Now, to make things right, I had to tell my girl everything, right from the start.

I needed to do this immediately.

Nobody had told me this directly, but everyone knew that Garcia had been out of sorts lately—most likely because of me—and between JJ, Gideon, Hotch, the boy genius, and even Emily Prentiss, though little did I know her, I was not short of suggestions to break open the channels of communication… with a sledgehammer if so necessary.

I wasn't entirely reluctant. In fact, I agreed whole-heartedly. However, that didn't make putting it into practice any less difficult…

~.~.~.~

My plane landed at 5:30 in the afternoon. If she had a case, Garia could still be at the BAU, but I suspected not. Bags in hand, I hailed a cab and gave the address of her residence. Talking to the driver, logic screamed at me to give him my own—go home and shower, change, ditch the bags… but my heart disallowed it. It ached and strained at the thought of causing my girl any more unnecessary pain.

At quarter to 7 I knocked on the door and allowed a few moments for her to approach before calling her name. Glancing down, I saw a shadow cross the light that streamed beneath the door onto the darker landing. It lingered, hesitant, for a moment before moving aside, the door opening shortly after.

The expression on Garcia's face as she let me in was uncharacteristically difficult to read. "Derek… You're just off the plane?"

Her tone of voice implied worry, anticipation, and caution somehow all at once.

I told her that we needed to talk and saw understanding flicker immediately in her eyes. What was it I'd said once?

'_I love our relationship. We hardly need words.'_

That was especially true now. Silently, she stepped aside and gestured me into the room.

~.~.~.~

(Garcia)

I was watching the X-Files when Morgan came to the door. 'Triangle'—episode 3, Season 6. Of course, I was in a bit of a state because that's the one where Mulder tells Scully he loves her and she passes it off as a concussed rambling (although any seasoned X-Phile could tell you that it's _much_ more than that). It's also their first kiss, so I had just rewinded it for maybe the umpteenth time when Morgan knocked.

My boy was still carrying his bags when he came to the door and I tried to conceal my, quite likely very evident, appreciation. Bags meant that he had just come from the airport, right off the plane—like I was some sort of high-priority, no-I-will-not-settle-into-the-hotel-first case. His sweat, I mused, was the scent of his love…

"You want coffee?" I tried my best to be casual about it. "I heard you had a rough time in Chicago. Mom still pestering you for kids or what?"

He chuckled quietly and answered evasively, "I could do with a coffee, yeah."

I wanted to press for more details but I stopped myself. This much was good. Coffee was good.

As I made up the coffee, Morgan paced around my living room, fiddling with objects that I knew from experience were of great and insatiable amusement to him. Beaded curtains, tiny figurines, ornate pillows—each had its own special place in my home and my heart, and as much as he bemoaned my 'future husband' and the pains he must have to take living with me and all my insensibilities, Morgan and I both knew that I'd never go for a guy who didn't accept me regardless. Idly, I wondered whether or not he was aware that he was the only man who had ever entered my life fitting that profile.

"Coffee's ready," I called out, mostly to myself as I poured milk into mine—none into his—and seconds later he was behind me, giving me a little kiss on the cheek as he reached around to retrieve his own mug.

"Ready to talk?" he asked quietly, and I nodded bravely as he led me back to the couch.

As we sat down together I tried to give him my undivided attention, but found myself glancing repeatedly down at my coffee cup. It's not that the coffee cup was any more interesting than what he was about to tell me... It's just that it was a whole lot less heartbreaking.

"Just so you know," I mentioned, angling my legs in towards his so that I couldn't subtly or comfortably turn my head away, "I never doubted you in Chicago."

His smile was pained but I knew he appreciated the gesture. It was sufficient to set him talking, at least.

"There are things that I haven't told you, Penelope. Not just you personally, but things that I haven't told—haven't been able to tell—_anybody_." He paused to register my reaction, and I suppose he was trying to judge whether or not I already knew. Whether or not somebody had had the decency to explain to me what happened down there. Of course, they hadn't. "Even now, it's hard, Pen, and it's only come to light as a result of this…"

He used the word 'case', here. I'd been thinking 'bullshit', but let him continue regardless.

"I have a criminal record, which I'm sure you've already pulled—" He must have seen guilt evident on my face, just about ready to pour from me here, because he shook his head and tried to grin reassuringly. It was lopsided. "It's okay, Garcia. It's history, and it was what you thought was necessary to protect me, right?" I couldn't answer but I nodded quickly. "I can trust you with that information. You understand? If you'd asked, I would have told you."

"Then there's more…" I said disappointedly. If only the torment could have ended there.

"You're right," he agreed, however.

I wasn't even sure I wanted to hear Morgan's secret—worse than 'aggravated assault' and such—but I listened anyway, because I knew that I had to if I wanted to be able to face him without guilt. I had to be there for my man. "How long…" I coughed to clear my throat here. "How long have you been keeping this secret?" I managed to ask, at once alarmed by both his seriousness regarding this matter and by his choice to trust _me_ with it. His answer shocked me.

"Since I was 12."

Possibilities flashed through my mind, each more horrible, more gruesome than the next. After all, something has got to give to turn a budding young basketball prodigy into a criminal profiler. From experience I knew that only the most difficult and unpredictable paths lead one down the eventual straight and narrow.

Never mind the possibilities, though. Ultimately I would have to step back and remind myself that no matter _what_ he had been in the past, _who_ he was now was not going to change.

His name was Derek Morgan and I loved him.

So I pulled myself together and plucked up the courage to tell him, "Go on."

I had begun to tremble by this point, my cup wobbling so dangerously that I had to risk drinking to keep the hot liquid from sloshing over my hands. Realizing my peril, Morgan gently removed the cup from my hands and returned his to cover mine. The pad of his thumb ran smoothly across my knuckles, the sweetness of the gesture and the sensation only making me more and more nervous. He must have known that I was terrified, but he was going to say it anyway. That made it not only an important secret, but a life-altering one—perhaps even deadly so. I waited.

"When I was 8," it began, "My father died. Buford, the youth centre worker we charged with the sexual assault of the children and the murders back in my hometown… he gave me everything after that. He was like a second dad at a time when I really needed one, you know? I was this absolutely tiny kid, weak like you wouldn't believe. I needed someone big to protect me, and Buford did more than that. He made me stronger."

I overlapped his hands, still cradling my own, and rubbed them softly, not knowing how best to express my affection without interrupting him. "You don't have to justify trusting him to me," I told him. "You were a kid. He was a grown-up. You had a right to trust him. He was out of line for breaching that trust."

"I know, baby," he agreed—was it gratefully? "But I need to tell you how it went down, okay?" He took a deep breath. "Buford taught me how to play football and basketball, as well as to live straight. He offered me a future. He was gonna seal my criminal record and prepare me for my scholarship application. I _owed_ that man, and he came to collect."

Our entangled hands stroked, caressed, squeezed. Part of it was anxiety, part sorrow, part helplessness. The base physical contact behind our joined hands was a comfort to me—perhaps to us both. His hand tightened over mine as he spoke of debts, and I knew that this was something that he had honestly believed: that he owed everything to that creep and that he was right to collect on it.

At least, for a little while.

Now it rightly seemed to infuriate him.

But, vigilantly, Morgan sought out my eyes, and although I wanted to look anywhere but, I held his gaze. How could I deny him as he spilled his heart out to me?

"I haven't ever told a soul about this before, Penelope— at least, not one attached to a living human being."

I knew the effort he was making and I knew how uncomfortable his weakness made him feel. I tried to smile reassuringly—to let him know how much I appreciated his trust—but my bottom lip just wouldn't stop quivering. I wanted to cry.

"Do you get it, Penelope?" he pressed, leaning closer, eyes desperate and searching. "You're the only one I've told of my own free will." Tears were sparkling in his dark eyes now and there was nothing I could do. No affirmative sound escaped my lips. "Because nobody knows me, understands me, better than you do, you know? I rely on you _entirely_."

Immediately I was uncomfortable with the praise. "I couldn't do what you do—" I tried to say, but he wouldn't let me disagree.

"I'm not talking about work. I'm not even _thinking_ about it," he said, shaking his head violently. "I rely on you to be there for me. You're my _rock_, baby girl. You make me okay."

That was all it took and I was in tears, face buried immediately in his chest, warring hands thrust aside in favour of a tight embrace. How long had I waited for that sort of real, honest appreciation? Was it worth it?

No, I couldn't bear to see him cry, although I knew that I was just the same.

"I'm sorry," I found myself blubbering. "I'm sorry that I can't fix it, but I can't! I'm useless outside my little box, away from my monitors… I'm— I'm useless in these sorts of situations, Derek. I'm sorry!"

His finger on my lip was my silencer and I begged myself not to be turned on by our proximity. Determinedly, I forced myself to picture hairy old grandfathers, the creep next-door, my mother… but hot damn, he was sexy.

"You aren't useless, Penelope. You're anything but." His words pummeled into me like a force ten hurricane. My heart hammered a 7 on the Richter scale—my chest ill designed to contain it. "I came to you first because I needed to see you." His finger was still resting firmly on my lips. I was sure he could feel them quivering. "And not only that, baby girl, but because I _love_ to see you, and because I couldn't bear to think of you upset…"

"Upset!"

Of course I'd been upset. Never on the field, therefore always the last to know, even when it came to Morgan... I flashed back to the explosion I'd most recently almost lost him in—the agonizing seconds that his cell phone went unanswered. In those seconds, for the first time since I was a kid, I'd prayed to God. What else had there been for me to do?

'_You can't get rid of me that easily.'_

He'd said something like that—completely ignorant to the frailty of the human body… Such ignorance terrified me, and I scarcely dared to believe him.

Caught out, Morgan blushed endearingly. "I thought you might have been upset," he admitted. "And I didn't want you to think I'd kept you purposely, personally in the dark."

As my sense of humour slowly began to return to me, I decided to let him sweat a little before acknowledging that I had been… _somewhat_ upset, after all. He grinned—the fingers that hand touched my lips now tracing over my hands once again. He studied them, stroking them with the pads of his fingers, tracing intricate little patterns on their surface. I struggled not to faint.

~.~.~.~

(Morgan)

I'd told her— Now what? Not for the first time, I felt like kissing her, like holding her close, breathing in her scent, brushing her hair with my lips. I wanted to show her affection… love. But we met so often, so briefly, shared so many half-touches, almost-brushes, that I didn't know what to do with so long, so heavy a silence. Instead of targeting the situation I idly took her hand again and concentrated all of my attention on it, fixating on the smooth white skin. I knew the true powers of those fingers, coupled with that mind. She was magic, my girl.

I chuckled softly in response to my own thoughts and she gave me an odd look, which I glanced up to intercept.

"I don't know how I'd laugh in your shoes," she said honestly, and I shrugged.

"I've been in these shoes a long time, baby girl. I can deal with it," I told her. "Fact is, now Buford's locked away, these shoes are more comfortable than ever." I paused uncertainly. "My only worry is, Penelope…"

"Don't worry about me," she replied, cottoning on immediately. "Please don't."

I grinned, disguising my relief with humour. "You can read me like a book, baby girl. We oughta switch places—get you profilin' for a change."

Garcia made a retching noise beside me.

"Don't think you can do it?" I asked lightly. She merely grinned back at me.

"I'm not talking about _your_ job, hot stuff," she corrected me earnestly. "It's the thought of _you_ touching _my_ computers that makes me sick."

(Garcia)

"That's my girl," he said, not for the first time this evening. Not for the first time, I wondered what exactly he meant by it… I looked down at our tangled hands and he seemed to sense by uncertainty because he let go and leaned away slightly.

…Damnit.

What game was this? I knew neither the rules nor the gameplay; neither the cheats nor the more appropriate methods of leveling up. I was completely at a loss. Barely capable of moving a finger in any direction.

But hot damn, I hoped he loved me too.

~.~.~.~

(Morgan)

It was hard to tell her, surprisingly easy to get past it. Within 45 minutes we were talking, joking. I was touching her in subtle ways, gauging her reaction, praying that a positive reading wasn't just wishful thinking on my part. By the time she suggested dinner I was ready. I wasn't sure why it had to be tonight, but it did. I _wanted_ it to be tonight. She was playing with the idea of Chinese takeaway when I dropped the bombshell on both of our comfortable lives. She looked at me as though I were beautifully insane, then excused herself temporarily and scurried off into the kitchen. Moments later I heard her voice, muffled, over the phone.

~.~.~.~

(Garcia)

Mildly aware that I hadn't yet given him an answer, I ran through the checklist in my mind. The proposed time was in 1 hour. Nice place, appropriate dress, great food, dare-I-say _anxious_ approach, and best of all, he was paying! It was everything I could hope for. I mean, he couldn't have phrased it more clearly if he's said "Hey, Garcia. Up for a date?" I dialed frantically.

"…Hello?"

He sounded as stiff at home as he did at work. I wondered how his wife could handle it. Then again, maybe I'd interrupted something. What do married couples do in their spare time anyway? I knew what I'd be doing in their place.

"This is Aaron Hotchner. Hello?"

I considered how best to reply.

"Agent Hotcher, is your wife at home?" I asked, trying my best not to sound too menacing.

"Who is this?"

"Penelope Garcia, glorified tech support, at your service."

"Garcia, what—?"

"_Aaron! Don't interrogate my girlfriends!" _I heard called in the background. _"Not another word! I'll be five seconds!"_

A little mistrustingly, or curiously perhaps, Hotch did so, and handed the phone over without any further hesitation.

"Hi, Penelope," said Haley brightly, upon receiving the phone from her husband. "How's your alley cat?"

You didn't need to be a profiler to figure out what I was calling for, I guessed, but it probably helped to be married to one.

"Alley cat's not so hot, but has just invited me out to a fancy dinner. What do I do?"

Haley considered this for a second then replied slowly. "When you say 'has just invited', how long ago do you mean?" she asked.

I wasted no time in replying, anxious that such was of the essence. "About two and a half minutes ago."

"And you have _replied_, right?"

"Well, you see, that's why I've called—"

Haley sighed loudly. "Hang up the phone, Garcia."

"Wha—?"

"Hang up the phone and get your ass back in there."

"But—?"

"Now."

Pouting, I did as directed. I walked back into the living room and I accepted Morgan's invitation. He seemed pleased, but not entirely unsuspicious and I found myself sinking into a familiar smile.

I could do this.

I really could.

….It was what I'd been waiting for after all.

And so, despite everything, I found myself smiling as he left—calling that he'd be back to pick me up in an hour if that was okay by me.

…Of course, it couldn't have been more okay, and finally things were looking up for us.


End file.
